Country Music Broke My Brain (37 page)

I actually met Gene Autry at some radio dealio many years ago. Gene was ancient at that time, but his speech to the convention was amazing. He told the story of how he came to write “Here Comes Santa Claus.” He was in the Rose Bowl Parade, next-to-last in the line of participants. Ol' Kris Kringle was right behind Gene, who was astride his horse, Champion. The kids along the way would have normally been thrilled to see “The Singing Cowboy,” but instead they shouted, “Here comes Santa Claus!” and ignored him. Gene had the good sense to write what he heard.

I still remember the opening of his speech to a packed crowd of radio men and women. “It's so nice to be here in Nashville, especially to see the ladies here today. Why, it's just like looking out on a beautiful garden of flowers. A beautiful garden of beautiful flowers.” He took a professional pause and then delivered, “Of course, I do see an occasional weed here and there.” It got one of the biggest laughs I've ever heard. He was ninety and still rockin' the house.

I also met Roy Rogers, but he was more interested in his steak. Get along, little dogie.

It's not often I have a guest call me an ape and am happy about it, but it did happen once. He filled the room not only with his physical presence but also that attendant outsize star power that few people possess. He was older and had battled cancer and people who wanted to take a gun from his cold, dead fingers. He wore a long overcoat instead of his usual sandals and leather gladiator outfit. I remember he was there plugging something. It's what old showbiz gladiators do—they have a new project and fight to make sure it's successful.

Charlton Heston had recorded the Bible. Who better to read the “Word” than the guy who made
The Ten Commandments
? It was just kind of scary to have Ben-Hur stride confidently in and shake your hand. My first question was, “What have you got to say for yourself?” He shot back his iconic line from
Planet of the Apes
, “Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape.” That
voice!
Now, I've had the same exact thing said to me by Martina McBride and Jennifer Nettles, but it's funnier coming from a guy. This obviously was not Charlton's first trip to the Colosseum.

I poked and prodded him about the Bible and asked him repeatedly if he'd found any loopholes while reading it. He was generous to laugh, but quite serious about his new work, and we wound our way to the end of an hour. The most memorable part of the day was the shocked reaction of my station manager, John King, after the show.

“Did I just see
Moses
walking down the hall?”

What can you say that makes your friends suspicious it's an April Fools' joke?

A)
  
“Mark on your schedule a reminder for the first of April. We're going catfish noodling with Reba.”

B)
  
“Drop whatever you're doing. We're playing golf with Engelbert Humperdinck.”

C)
  
“Hey, next Thursday is the first annual Banjo Burn on Music Row. Bring your banjo by and throw it on the bonfire.”

Fool on the Hill

ACTUALLY,
ANY ONE OF THOSE answers could probably be true. Reba is up for anything, especially if it involves wading in a muddy creek and sticking your bare hands into a hole. Noodling is fun and healthy except for the snapping turtles and the tapeworms. I'm not sure what on earth possesses a ten-fingered hillbilly to try such a sport, but it's done around these parts. It's one of many odd things I've suggested to Reba that we do over the years.

Burning banjos has for years been a dream of many people. During my career, I've tried to start many “events” on Music Row. Way back when, I was part of the group that dreamed up the Swine Ball. Some advertising and political friends of mine, over drinks, thought it would be fun to spoof the Swan Ball—the swanky dinner dance in the ritzy part of town that neither I nor anybody I know have been invited to attend. It's actually a lovely evening, but the crowd I run with ain't gonna pass the admissions test for the Swan Ball. So, we did what outsiders do—we started the Swine Ball.

It was originally intended to be a “tacky” event. Everybody would wear polyester jumpsuits and plastic shoes. It has morphed over the years, no longer requiring our guidance, into more of a pig-based celebration.

I also tried desperately to get the city fathers to approve having all the fire hydrants on Music Row decorated to look like Little Jimmy Dickens. What fun for the tourists visiting the heart of country music to see tiny hats and big guitars in a custom suit on all the hydrants of Music City. That idea not only didn't go down with the City Council, but Jimmy himself was kind of irritated by it.

I suggested several times we have a late-night banjo burnin' by our station. It also went nowhere. I guess too many folks saw
Deliverance
and felt a kinship with those who pluck for pleasure. Another fabulous plan that didn't work out as I'd hoped and dreamed.

I
did
, however, once call my two Hall of Fame songwriting pals, Bob DiPiero and Tom Shapiro, and say, “Drop what you're doing tomorrow, we're playing golf with Engelbert Humperdinck.” “Engie,” the massive star of pop's early days, actually had some reason to visit Nashville and pick songs, as he was in town recording an album. Two of his biggest hits, “Release Me (And Let Me Love Again)” and “There Goes My Everything,” were from the pens of Twang Town songwriters. He did my show and then said that he wanted to hit the links. I called and left messages for my two guys to complete the foursome.

Hours later, I got a call from DiPiero. For some reason, he's always suspicious of my plans and ideas. Bob is one of the greatest people I know and the authentic godfather of my daughter, Autumn. He said, “House, I just realized tomorrow is April Fools' Day, and you invited us to play golf with Engelbert Humperdinck. If this is one of your pranks, I'm going to kill you because I canceled a bunch of stuff.” See how some people are? You can't even invite them to play golf without arousing suspicion. I called and swore on his goddaughter's eyes that it was true.

Engelbert is cool and suave and a Vegas showman. He was managed by a guy named Gordon Mills, his old roommate. Gordon had previously hit it big managing another singer named Tom Jones. Tom also was in town for awhile when he recorded “country.” “Green, Green Grass of Home” was a huge hit for Tom Jones, and he loved that kind of music. I will say the most ridiculous sight I've ever seen was Mr. “What's New Pussycat?” in a cowboy hat. Puh-leeze, Dr. Sex Bomb, lose the lariat lid.

When you play golf with people, you start discussing all sorts of things. As usual, with three songwriters and a singer, you start discussing showbiz and how awful it can be. Bob, Tom, and I all lamented how the business was difficult at times. Blah, blah, blah. I am still frozen by the memory of Engelbert looking up just before teeing off and saying, “Wait 'til your manager loses everything.” What? Yes, Engelbert and Tom's manager cost them
millions.
They are back in the black now, but Gordon Mills had siphoned off around $320 million to pay off gambling debts to the Mob. (I half-expected DiPiero to say, “Thanks.”) Tom Jones and Engelbert were victims of the cliché of all showbiz clichés—they'd trusted somebody else with their money. I almost felt guilty taking the four dollars Mr. Humperdinck lost in the golf game. But, hey, you have to pay off your bets, right?

White Is 1,000 Colors

I
HAVE LEARNED DURING the 150-odd years of my marriage not to examine things too closely in our house. Here's what happens if I do:

I once picked up a lamp and looked at it for a second. You know how, one day out of the blue, you just wake up and want to examine your lamps. Allyson saw me on my illumination examination and said, “I don't like that lamp, either.” I actually didn't have anything particular against it, but casually said, “Maybe it's time we got a new one.” Then it started. Once she'd bought a new lamp, she noticed that the cabinet she put the new lamp on didn't seem “quite right” now. We went cabinet shopping. Then, because it was a different cabinet, we had to get a new picture to hang over it. The walls were now clashing with the painting and, frankly, ruining the lives of nearly everyone within a square mile.

After we had the kitchen walls painted, the room next to it had a sort of “mismatched” feel to it. The simple act of examining a lamp had cascaded into a landslide: a new cabinet, a new painting, new wall colors, and, suddenly, we now need a new kitchen.

This brings us to the “while we're at it” syndrome. You know the drill. You're tearing up the carpet to put down hardwood floors and, “while we're at it,” why don't we put a new roof on the house? You pick out a new stove and, “while we're at it,” what about planting some cedars in the backyard and look at another house in Florida we can redecorate? It's a slippery slope, looking at lamps.

I have a point here, so stay with me. Anytime we have a decorating discussion, we look at paint samples. Allyson loves white. I love white. It goes with anything. Just in case you are not aware of this, there are now 1.52 million different variations of white available for your choosing.
And
you have to look at every one of them. Inspect each tiny cardboard “sample” and bring them home and hold them up against the door and ask, “What do you think of
this
white?” Men, be warned, you can't just glance up and say, “I like it. Let's go with that one.”
Oh, nooooo.
Because if the attention sensor goes off in the co-decorator's head that you didn't sweat and struggle with the choice, then the choice is tossed out like yesterday's cat litter.

What about country music? Did author boy forget about some tie-in to country music? That's not far away, I promise.

My wife has confessed to me a secret my own mother had told her. Mom passed along what is apparently a secret evil method to get things changed around the house. Women are devious people. Mom instructed my Mrs. as follows: “I'd ask Homer [my father] the first time if he'd like to change the wallpaper in the living room. He'd always say, ‘Aw, it's fine with me.' I'd wait a few days and then ask, ‘What about a different style of wallpaper in the living room?' Basically, I'd get the same response. But the third time was the charm. When I'd say, ‘Hey, I'm thinking some flowery wallpaper in the living room would perk things up around here.' He'd reply with, ‘Fine with me. Whatever you want, honey. I think that's what we need.'”

The poor guy never had a chance, worn down by the time-honored method of repeat asking. Allyson knows that with 1.52 million choices of the color white, I will eventually break and beg for something called “pale eggshell latte.”

Here it comes. Most country singers are a variation of white. I don't mean skin color; I mean they are just ever so slightly different. Some are off-white, some baby-white, some ivory, and a few antique whites. Although, it's also true most country singers are white. I've spent decades trying to decide what it is that separates people who make music in this town. What is it that attracts fans to jump aboard the fan wagon of a certain particular brand of white country singer? Is it a particular song? Sometimes. Is the artist very attractive? That helps. Do they have so much charisma they just can't be denied? That's also good, but no guarantee. The plain fact is
nobody knows.
You can, of course, ask nearly anyone, and they'll act like they know, but they don't. You can have a pretty good guess, but I've seen the experts pick somebody who never sees the light of day. Some artists who are often called the “whole package” strike gold, while others strike mud.